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User blog:WayfinderOwl/P.S. I Hate You
This started off as a letter being written by Kyla telling her family she hated them, and then evolved into this. I kept the title, 'cause it is so Kyla. '' P.S. I Hate You I lay on my bed, magazines spread out in front of me. Gazing over my idols; Gucci, Prada, Chanel, Dolce and Gabbana, and all the rest. Proper fashion gods. Immortalized in the glossy pages of fashion magazines. Who needs a stupid book, when you can look over this season’s fashion and know who to laugh at tomorrow? I was distracted by the jingle-jangle of the door brushing against the windchimes I strategically placed above the door frame. “Get the hell out my room!” I shouted at the little monster in the doorway. She stood there looking up with her brown eyes, small hand holding the corner of the white wooden door. Her pink baby doll t-shirt, and matching shorts and socks did nothing to make her cute. Nor did the matching ribbon bows creating pigtails in her black hair. I wore it much better when I was her age. She looked like a wicked creature in mildly cute clothing. “Get out,” I growled. Nasty little bitch. Judging me because she got something cute, and I had to make do with wearing a white tank top and pink sweatpants. The parents putting the same color on her as I chose to wear didn’t make her any more endearing. It only made her more like a style stealing nasty little goblin wearing my face. I stared her out, but she wouldn’t budge. I abandoned my magazines, walked on the soft pink carpet. Towered over her, and glared her out again. Nothing. Didn’t even say a word. She could speak, she was just being stubborn. I shoved her out my room, shut the door and locked it. Five seconds later, a loud rapping noise came from the other side of the door, and the voice of my father followed after it; “Kyla! Why is Ana out here crying?” I rolled my eyes. Of course! He was there to scoop her up, and start the ''let’s scream at Kyla game. “Because she wouldn’t get out of my room!” I shouted back at him. “Get out here right now, young lady!” Dad replied. Oh yeah, he can shout at me, but because little Ana is there, oh, let’s talk normal. “Grr!” I growled, turning back around. I turned the key in the lock and opened the door just far enough to stick my head out. The monster named Ana clung to him, lavishing in his cuddles and forehead kisses. I. Hate. Her. So. Damn. Much. “What?” I snapped. “You know Ana needs to get used to the house. You are to keep the door open,” said Dad. “Why? You never did that for me,” I shot back. “Yes, we did,” Dad lied. “Oh, really?” I scoffed. I slammed the door shut, walked over to the shelves where I kept all my school junk, and my collection of magazines. Grabbed a photo album with a white cover. Returned to the door, stepped out into the hall and closed the door behind me. I opened the album, to reveal all the pictures taken when I was a baby that used to be on the walls. Each page I turned, I pointed to pictures taken of totally posed ‘candid family moments.’ “Oh, look,” I said. “That’s me. In a playpen. And here too.” I turned more and more pages, pointing out that I was never allowed to just roam the house as and when I felt like it. To further prove my point, I moved around him, and started point Ana out on the many framed photos on the wall. “On the floor playing. On the sofa. Rolling around on the rug…” “You’ve made your point,” Dad growled angrily. “Don’t shut your door.” He opened my door a crack, and headed down the hall to the monster’s nursery. I returned the photo album to the shelf, and closed the door again and locked it. Double standards. I can’t wait until I get my trust fund and leave this family to rot in the glow of Perfect Ana. “Kyla Vazquez, you get down here right now!” Mom screamed from downstairs. Do they ever stop?! Stamping my feet on every step on the way down, I walked through the hallway (and the museum of how perfect Ana Vazquez is.) I don’t even know why they bother decorating the house in Spanish minimalism. We don’t even live Puerto Rico. More like small house in the middleclass side of Old Bullworth Vale because dear old daddy is too cheap to stump up the cash for anything better. Mom stood in the kitchen, looking like an Aquaberry model in an off the shoulder strappy dress sculpted to flaunt her body. Six inch heels with peep toes. Her face wrinkled with disgust—she must be due a botox injection. Between her index finger and thumb she held the corner of a zip lock bag of chips like it was a rotten smelly rag covered in nerd sweat. Before I could utter a word, she barked, “What was this doing in your school bag?” “You went through my school bag?!” I shouted. “Eating chips?” she said, shaking the bag as if she were imagining her fingers were her hand, and the bag of chips was my throat. “Are you trying to get fat? Men don’t want fat women.” “If I get fat, I’ll just get liposuction like you,” I said, nastily. Her open palm clapped against my cheek, darkening it. I clasped my hand over my cheek, looking at her open mouthed. “Get out of my sight you fat little pig,” Mom screamed at me. “I HATE YOU! I HATE YOU! I HATE YOU!” I screamed over and over again. I snatched the bag of chips out of her hand, unzipped it and flung them over her. I stormed out of the kitchen, leaving her to scream about her salty chips shower. I wasn’t done, I screamed all the way up the stairs, stopped every three steps to shout how much I hated her. Her voice followed after me, shouting something. Only the sound of her voice was distinguishable. Hysterical screaming in retaliation to hearing exactly how I felt about her. I slammed my bedroom door behind me, to muffle the sound of her shrieking voice. “Open that damn door!” Dad hollered from the room at the end of the hall. “Shut up!” I screamed. “I have to make a call to Vice City! How many ‘t’s in Vercetti?” I felt so angry, I could have smashed something. Everything in my room was so pretty. Venting some of my anger, I screamed into a pillow. My phone rang from the nightstand. Not even surfacing, I snatched it, and hit answer. “Hello?” I snapped. “Hola, bebe linda,” replied in a soft calming voice. “Auntie Juanita!” I said, throwing the pillow off my face. I rolled onto my stomach, kicking my feet in the air. “Can I come live with you?” “Sorry, bebe linda, you have to stay with your mother and father. What is the matter?” Ranting on the phone to Auntie Juanita helped. She hated my mom just as much as I did. She thought her older sister was a big nasty bitch. Dad wasn’t exactly high in her opinions either. The best part; Juanita lost contact with mom just before the monster clawed her way out of her. She kept in touch with me. Both of the parents were major creeping at lunch. Someone knocked on my door. I waited until their footsteps faded downstairs, before going out to see what they left. A salad on a plate with a milkshake. On the side was a thousand bucks cash. Trying to buy my forgiveness? Too little, too damn late. I grabbed the cash, threw it on the red tile floor, and slammed my bedroom door shut. At dinner, I found a catalogue for Aquaberry next to a plate of paella. The cash was long gone, but the catalogue landed exactly where the last bribe did. I’m not settling anything less than a Lamborghini. ♦♦♦ Driving me to school? Could he be any more of a groveler? I gave him the cold shoulder. Heavy makeup covered the handprint that had marked my face. A Prada backpack was placed on the coat rack where I kept my old ratty backpack. I was still going to make them suffer. As the Porsche pulled up at the school gates, I didn’t even waste a “Bye Daddy” on him. I climbed out the car, and waited until I heard the revving engine roar away from the school. A scrawny brown haired boy walked towards me. He wore the blue sweater people on the team wore, when they weren’t good enough to deserve Letterman. “Kirby! Perfect,” I said, slipping off my backpack and shoving it into his arms. I placed my hand on Kirby’s shoulder for support. Pulled off one of the flat blue shoes I had to wear here. Grabbed one of the blue and white wedge heels from my backpack and slipped it on. Did the same with the other shoe. Unfastened the top button of my blouse, then another, and the lower ones until they reached my waist. Knotted my blouse to draw attention to my best feature. Yes, they are natural. Kyla Vazquez is back, bitches. Kirby stroked the fabric of my Prada backpack, and asked me if I had shoes to match. Why do I even bother blackmailing him? Everyone can see from space what way he swings. I snatched the bag off him, and slipped it on my back. “Move it losers,” I yelled at a gathering of losers. Not sure who they were. Some had green vests, some had white shirts, some had teal vests. I cleared my throat with a cough, and Kirby offered the crowd pound cake if they didn’t move. They parted for me. I basked in their adoration. How could I blame them; I am Kyla Vazquez. Anyone who hates me is just jealous. They are losers. Mandy met me at the crest. “Hey girl!” said Mandy. “Oh my god, love the backpack! Is it new?” “You know it,” I replied. “Have a good weekend with the parents?” she asked, hooking her arm around mine. “We all missed you. So much. Bullworth sucks without you.” “Sucks. Big time. All creeping around the little brat. Glad I don’t have to suffer that for another month,” I replied, steering us in our strut towards the school. We are hot, and all the ugly people needed to know it and die of jealousy. Category:Blog posts Category:WayfinderOwl's Fanfiction